Thursday, June 14, 2007

Virginia Whiskey (alternate version)

We stopped for a drink at the river.
It was a small river, but powerful -
step inside and you are almost tumbled by the weight of water
rushing around your knees, cooling your skin

We were walking through the old woods of Virginia,
Shenandoah growth of thick moss, curling mushroom, limestone;
full of medicine women, red fox, elapsed time.

You pulled out the flask, which I love only for it's crude nostalgia,
its metallic sheen and dainty embossed floral pattern.
We sat next to the river and watched the water swiftly carry old stories down
oblivious to their place in time, paying no attention to our humanistic linear needs
The river simply told stories
and swept up new ones too,

Virginia Whiskey

I bought this flask on a trip out west
and let it be said that it's light and travels well,
and made it's way back to a home of sorts.

Because I needed a place to think on when I was away
I played the song about Virginia, its wood fire smoke and trees still scarred from the war.
I can spin tales of its gently rolling Shenandoah;
forests dense with green; dark, full of medicine women, red fox, elapsed time.

But this is an old remembrance, liquid, and before my time.
Distill it, light the lantern, lay down the arms.

Shaman Says

This is a good teacher;
Machu Picchu's mystery of cut stone: perfect, even
with no record of the tools
maybe they cut it with some kind of acid, an old wisdom combination of root and vine.

Then and still, green life (ever incorrigible) is making it's way through the thin divide.
Melding there: force of man, will of nature.

In not so subtle terms he told me to go:
take off your shoes in sacred places.
The Temple of the Moon wants your contact,
skin to stone, animal to animus, archetype to simple soul.

It's still possible. Let this be a reminder, he said.


Light, in a word, energy

Butter candles, lit for offering,
the tail end of a silk scarf.

Follow me here, where we can give our thoughts
physical existence, offer ourselves some
solace and make a place for our wantingwishing.

But is it possible
to offer light on the altar, and give respect
to the wealth in the dark

Light and Dark ride opposite sides of the same plane
Embrace both, she said.
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dumb-struck: the Wat Pho, fish market, Thailand.

We came all the way here. This theology is beautiful,
intricate, and unavailable.

The source, behind closed doors,
my western tongue.

Once I even sat openly,
prayer books and beads, people were singing
a private gathering.
I had my camera, I had my willingness, my walls.
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Sunday, June 10, 2007

Tinkering with words to go with these pictures for a summer show...

The lake pours into his hand
The seeds of which/
the unhaunting.
This experience is potentized
liquid dream,
seeds fertile with the deepness of the lake.

Your touch makes rain,
fills deep valleys.
The seed of which/
the creation of this,
the native tongue.
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A series of closed doors.
Approach the monastery by hillside and
the gate opens.
From this distance: the Kathmandu Valley, split open like a gutted fish (beautiful bone, fine filigree)
from Manjushri's sword.
Intention and the power of creation.

The mythology here is transferable.
I want flight, that many winged bird,
I need open gates.
Creation is dually an act of violence (thrust, propulsion, intention)
and an act of beauty (beginning, opportunity, birth)

Notes: not sure about the gutted fish- graphic because I want that juxtaposition: force/beauty, but? Maybe "the Kathmandu Valley, split open like cracked oyster, like open book, like...."
also, re: bottom line: "Creation is an act of violence" or "Creation is an act of force"?
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Wednesday, June 06, 2007

Pictures from a recent trip to the Maine coast, and to Vermont. Spring 2007.